Get Real

"You cannot build a reputation on what you are going to do."

This is a quote from Henry Ford that hangs above my desk at work. I stare at it fairly often, considering how to approach each day and all of the things that I would like to accomplish in a given 24 hours. I give all of my efforts to achieving each of those goals, and some days I feel like I succeed more than others. This quote has been somewhat of a mantra for me this year.

But I don't know that I've been true to it.

I don't know that I fully grasped why I loved the quote when I initially found it, but through a variety of conversations with some of my closest friends and family, I think I am starting to.

I latched onto the idea of building a reputation through the most prevalent thing in my life: my job. There is nothing in this world I would rather do than teach. I live to be in front of a classroom, delivering crucial information, watching lightbulbs ignite, creating a passion for something that I love in others. Showing others that you can live life your own way and succeed at something special. And naturally delivering clever quips, quotes, and colloquialisms to help my students remember and personalize the information.

However, something has been missing. Maybe for a long time, maybe forever.

I've been working toward 'building a reputation' for as long as I can remember. I was born into a family of successes. My grandfathers were both military men who built their lives from the ground up, one as a plumber and the other as an electrician. Coming up in the Depression and still carving out their own place in the world is something I greatly admire.

My father is the definition of hardworking and self-sacrificing. He was let go from a job he gave over 20 years to and never seemed to waver in his example, that putting your head down and going to work would pay dividends. I don't know that I ever heard him complain. He would come home and put his briefcase on the porch and shoot hoops with me until the sun went down, despite how tired he was. He would coach my basketball teams, teach me to use a knife to create, and never hesitate to watch a Van Damme movie with me when I couldn't sleep.

My mom went back to work when I was young to provide a good life for myself and my siblings, never wanting to leave my brother and I but doing so to make sure we could have the things we wanted and needing. She would take me to get a soda on days that were horrible and pretend not to notice when I would stay up late watching TV with my sister. She would let me read when I was scared to go to sleep, and even not ask too many questions about my dating life when I knew how bad she wanted to know.

 I don't know if I've ever properly thanked either of my parents for that, but I will spend my life trying to show them how much it meant and that it did not go unnoticed. I could keep going on the legacy I was born into and the examples I follow, but that really isn't the point.

I was recently challenged to 'spend time and get real' with myself. I was rocked by the challenge and have spent the majority of the week thinking about it. Finally, we've found the rub. That's the purpose. That's the point.

The point is, my focus for "success" has always been my occupation. I've thrown myself into every job I've ever had, trying to be the best at what I do. I have cleaned toilets until my arms felt like I'd been swimming in the bowl, made sandwiches that I still crave, washed cars until they sparkled, massaged fused cervical vertebra to eliminate a migraine that had been raging for a week, and taught with every shred of passion and determination to maybe inspire that one student who didn't know how amazing they were. Successes and failures are in the eye of the beholder.

I've spent so much time and energy on trying to succeed at my various occupations that I think I've forgotten to succeed with myself. When I look into the mirror I see my occupation. I see what I bring to my classroom, what I bring to my clients. But I don't see the man that brought me there. I see the ripples, but not the pebble that broke the surface of the water.

When my daughter gets older and has her own children, I doubt she is going to talk about how awesome her dad was in a classroom. I doubt she will speak of his ingenuity in a deli or his proficiency at washing and waxing Mustangs. What I hope she will say is that her dad was a man who loved his family and friends, followed his passions, and refused to accept any effort less than his all.

She can't say that right now because it isn't true. Occupations only last so long. Legacy, reputation...these are forever. My daughter deserves a complete view of her father's life, not just what he didn't do when he came home from teaching.

She doesn't care about the lightbulbs. She won't ever see the smirk of a student laughing at a silly etiology of the name of a bone or the gratitude for an acronym to remember where a trigger point refers. She will never see the patients (awkwardly) hug her dad to thank him for relieving their pain. What she will see right now is a man too tired for the gym, too drained write and record a new song, and too complacent to finish a novel he's dreamed about for his entire life. A man who gave up on what he wanted from life for what he wanted from work.

She will see emptiness. Opacity. Excuses. One dimensional living. Not success. Not tenacity. Not determination. She will see Atlas, carrying the world on his back but never fully rising under its weight. And that is not the legacy, the reputation I want to leave for her or my other children as they arrive.

I want them to look at my life the way I look at my family, my ancestors. I want my daughter to think I walked with giants, the way my father did and the way his father before him.

If this were to be my last day, then I would have utterly failed.

But it isn't my last day. That's really the beautiful part of this whole thing. I still have time.

I will follow in the footsteps of giants and leave something my daughter and my descendants will take reckoning of.

I will leave an impact, a legacy, and hope to God that it's worth something.

Consider this a declaration:

1. I will hold a copy of my novel The Nemesis Diary in my hands by Christmas.
2. I will release a record of my own music that I am proud of, not embarrassed of.
3. I will expand my vision to being more than just a teacher.
4. I will have more than just 'work friends', though they will continue to be an integral part of my life. I have men I consider blood brothers that I haven't seen in over a year. This will change immediately.
5. I will run my 10th half marathon and continue to train to running a full marathon by 2018.
6. I will entertain casual interests like archery, making leather bracelets, and learning more about hundreds of other things.

You'll notice these are personal goals and this isn't even half of my list. To create a change, you must begin with yourself. Growth is painful. I am not afraid. I am refocused, realigned, and reborn. A phoenix only rises from ashes, and I've been burned enough. As tears roll down my cheeks as I write this I swear to you, to my daughter, to myself...I will not be nothing.

A storm is coming. I am not afraid of the rain or thunder because I AM THAT STORM.

I come from a line of success, and I refuse to be anything less. This world will remember my name.

Is that real enough for you?


Sb

The Eyes of a Child

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Twelve seconds.

The battle horn sounds, shrill and cold.

Time stands still.

Nine seconds. Eight seconds.

Adrenalin rushes through veins like waves through the ocean during a hurricane.

Six seconds.

Blood pressure rises. The air shudders in the icy chill of October night.

Three seconds.

Sweat glistens on the skin of the combatants. The battle has been fierce.

The warriors clash.

Two seconds.

Hearts beat faster.

The violent cacophony of the collision shakes the foundations of the arena.

One second.

The prize is at hand. Glory waits just inside the boundary. Immortality.

Touchdown.

Wait, what?

Touchdown! Game over! Victory!

If you are a fan of football like myself, this might sound a little familiar (if not a little enhanced). Games are won and lost, teams overcome and underachieve, and champions become mere mortals eventually. I've spent hundreds of nights watching this particular game of war, but tonight is special.

My little girl Mykayla watches the twenty inch TV as intently as a lion hunting an antelope at a watering hole. Her hair is tousled and eyes are heavy, purple polka-dot pajamas freshly donned. Keisha is already half asleep on the hotel room bed, but Mykayla is forcing her sparkling eyes to stay open. Sometimes, a girl just needs to see how the game ends.

It's moments like these I would give anything to know exactly what she sees with those hazel halos she calls eyes; to know what was running through her brain as the running back forced his way into the endzone.

When the crowd roars, her eyes widen. She claps her little hands as hard and fast as she can as the fans celebrate another victory. She looks to me, making sure I was clapping and cheering too. I smile and quietly cheer so as not to wake her mother. Mykayla looks back to the TV, smiling. What an amazing way to end a magical California night.

Being a parent has provided me so many moments that have added light to a difficult moment in my life. Many come to mind, but one more sticks out. Not too long ago, we had the Blood Moon. I took my daughter outside to see it in the middle of the night (way past her bedtime). Snuggling up against my chest, I wondered if she would even care.

As we stepped into the street where the trees didn't obscure the sky, she wiggled and adjusted so that she could see the night's majestic beauty. She pointed up at the crimson moon and started jabbering. Furrowing her brow, she looked back at me with her sharp little gaze, continuing to tell me a story about the moon and the stars. She chattered in her tiny voice in such a way that I knew I should pay attention to her 'words.' I would pay good money to know what legends she told me.

The point of this entry is not to gush about my daughter. The point is to simply recognize in a public forum that we spend too much time looking at things through educated, assimilated eyes. Seeing the forest for the trees, if you will. We get to see the sun every day and the stars almost every night, but I wonder if we have truly lost the magic of it all. The little girl in my arms wanted me to know something extremely important, but I couldn't tell you what.

I believe my eyes, while seasoned and clear, may be losing focus on what is really important. Football? No. A blood moon? Incredible, but lacking even still. The sense of wonder, the understanding that every day of my life (and my daughter's) is a miracle, may be the most important sense I have. Do I waste the chance to see this world through the eyes of a child?

It's time to awaken. It's time to be reborn. Today. Now. I'll start with new eyes. But this is only the beginning.



Sb.